Gramma,
Hail predicted. Parked the car where there are no trees, so it would get the max damage. That pretty much insures we won't get any weather. Can't believe anything these hacks say. First round of storms was supposed to be around 3:00 p.m. It was sunny and hot. We need rain. My grass is shredded wheat.
The yard is an explosion of color, flowers blooming everywhere. I deadhead every morning. All weekend, there was this young finch outside one of my picture windows, tapping on the glass. Elvis, my canary, is in his cage watching this. The windows are open and he is singing away.
Dave and I had a staycation over the Fourth. My three kids came over Friday late afternoon, about three hours late. They spent the night. We grilled and drank a lot of beer. The kids had a fire in the pit. I tripped on a step and was impaled by a gargoyle wing. There is a bruise on my ribcage. I had been drinking since noon, so didn't feel it until the next morning.
Party at my son's the next night. He bought the house and land where he was raised. I planned to spend the night, but only had three beers, so went home. I had my daughter's dog while she and her boyfriend were off doing some things. Poor Huxley shook uncontrollably from the sound of gunshots. It brought me back to a dark summer day in 1990.
My six-year-old daughter and I were in the yard with a German shepherd given to me for protection after my border collie was found shot and left in a ditch. Bullets flew past us. The shepherd went down. I grabbed my daughter and ran towards the house. "Get Baby," she yelled. Baby was the lamb she got for her birthday. Baby was wearing a bonnet. I scooped her up with my other arm and got to safety.
When the gunshots stopped, I took the dog to the vet. Later, I called the Sheriff's Department. An officer showed up and blew me off. My husband's family had the police in their pocket. I went to the D.A.'s office to ask for help. He too ignored me. I didn't know then that they are all in the same bed.
I have these kinds of flashbacks all the time. I have PTSD from this and other things the legal system did to me.
Much later, I would see the falsified police report that was filed. I was quoted as calling my ex-to-be a son-of-a-bitch. That terminology had never been part of my vocabulary. My daughter wants to ask her father why he did this, but hasn't found the right time. Is there ever the right time to ask your father why he shot at you and your mother?
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Death. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
Saturday, June 4, 2016
Frog Symphony
Gramma,
The spring frog symphony has arrived. Warm up begins around nine, working up to a crescendo about 11:00. This is one of my favorite sounds. It takes away the constant noise in my head and redirects it to a magic place where nothing matters, almost like laughing gas. Yesterday it rained, so the air was intoxicating, an amazing pairing of sound and smell. I lay in bed, euphoric as I drift off to sleep.
My mind races most of the time, much like the breaking of billiard balls on a pool table--off in every direction, free associating forward, backward and sideways in time. There is background music with this, most often an Italian piece that drives me up the wall. I could take more meds, but I don't want more side-effects.
My nighttime bi-polar cocktail would take a horse to the ground. I can't sleep without it. Even so, I wake up any time after two, and often need a booster to help me get back to sleep. Before I had my dosage upped, I often heard indiscernable voices, like a radio between stations. I could tell what kind of music it was and when there were commercials or the announcer was talking, but nothing clear, too much static.
Another of my favorite sounds are the windchimes hanging from shepherds hooks around the yard. This too, takes away the pervasive racket in my head. Chirping birds at the feeder below my window is a calming morning distraction. The smell of fresh cut grass and new mown hay is therapeutic. If these feelings of serenity could be bottled, we would all be happy.
I love the smell of pot, but ingesting it makes me dopey, incoherent and worst of all, inert. Unproductive is intolerable for me. The kids found my night time baked goods under my bed and that was the end of that. Dave always asks first before eating any cookies stored in the freezer. Some of my friends are incredibly functional on high dosages pot, others, not so much. Beer helps.
When I'm on my way off the planet, I want these sounds and smells to herald my exit. And mainline the beer please. I look forward to the day I am greeted by all the animals I loved and can again apologize to those I failed. Meanwhile, I am sustained by these little bits of heaven.
The spring frog symphony has arrived. Warm up begins around nine, working up to a crescendo about 11:00. This is one of my favorite sounds. It takes away the constant noise in my head and redirects it to a magic place where nothing matters, almost like laughing gas. Yesterday it rained, so the air was intoxicating, an amazing pairing of sound and smell. I lay in bed, euphoric as I drift off to sleep.
My mind races most of the time, much like the breaking of billiard balls on a pool table--off in every direction, free associating forward, backward and sideways in time. There is background music with this, most often an Italian piece that drives me up the wall. I could take more meds, but I don't want more side-effects.
My nighttime bi-polar cocktail would take a horse to the ground. I can't sleep without it. Even so, I wake up any time after two, and often need a booster to help me get back to sleep. Before I had my dosage upped, I often heard indiscernable voices, like a radio between stations. I could tell what kind of music it was and when there were commercials or the announcer was talking, but nothing clear, too much static.
Another of my favorite sounds are the windchimes hanging from shepherds hooks around the yard. This too, takes away the pervasive racket in my head. Chirping birds at the feeder below my window is a calming morning distraction. The smell of fresh cut grass and new mown hay is therapeutic. If these feelings of serenity could be bottled, we would all be happy.
I love the smell of pot, but ingesting it makes me dopey, incoherent and worst of all, inert. Unproductive is intolerable for me. The kids found my night time baked goods under my bed and that was the end of that. Dave always asks first before eating any cookies stored in the freezer. Some of my friends are incredibly functional on high dosages pot, others, not so much. Beer helps.
When I'm on my way off the planet, I want these sounds and smells to herald my exit. And mainline the beer please. I look forward to the day I am greeted by all the animals I loved and can again apologize to those I failed. Meanwhile, I am sustained by these little bits of heaven.
Sunday, May 15, 2016
Planting Silk Flowers
Gramma
This year, my mother-in-law asked me to help plant fake flowers in her white square planters along the front of her porch and garage. She's in her eighties. Until now, we always filled the planters with real geraniums and white flowers that hung over the edges. I thought of the plastic flowers that were so popular in the 70's. Those wouldn't fade and look tired after a season. Her silk flowers from the dollar store will be faded by mid-summer. The look real enough from the street.
I admit that, for years, I have stuffed my window boxes with quality silk flowers that are good for two seasons. It's much easier to keep them alive, and there is no dead-heading. If the garden club I belonged to in another lifetime saw this, I would surely be condemned. But, I don't care. These flowers cost less than the real ones and I don't have to water them every day.
After I plant the fake flowers, I have even fluffed the dirt, I spray weed killer. Eleanor has made this from a recipe she found in a magazine. She also bothers to make her own laundry soap. Too much time on her hands. I hope the weed killer works so I can use it in my yard. Because of the birds and pets, I don't like to spray poison.
I am already over my calorie count and don't want Eleanor to make us something to eat. But it is her thing, and I comply. She always tries to pay me for things I do for her, like painting or mending. This time I put the forty dollars under my paper plate. Later, she will call me to complain. If I lived closer, it's a forty minute drive, she wouldn't have to pay for yard work. She tells me how she puts the salt in the water softener a cup at a time, until she can get someone to dump the bag.
If the weather was nice, I would have hurried back home to work in my own yard. Instead, we sit and visit for awhile. She says how lonely it is at night. When Glen was alive, there was another body in the room. Even when they weren't talking, it was a comfortable silence. During the day she is busy with friends, The phone rings often. She says how she hopes to die in her sleep. I tell her I want to be put to sleep when I am ready.
We talk about the old people warehouses. Neither of us want's to be where your room is smaller than a prison cell, it is always noisy and smells of urine. I assure her that she should stay where she is. Even with the maintenance, it is cheaper in the long run. She has decided she needs a new roof more than she needs hearing aids.
The need to make this kind of choice annoys me. My step-mother also needs hearing aids, but can't afford them. I think the hearing aid industry is a scam. How can they be that expensive today. Why haven't they come down in price. Most of all, why doesn't insurance cover the cost. Unacceptable.
Eleanor has updated all her insurances and come out thousands of dollars a year richer. This appalls me. When she cancels the old insurance's, they want to know why and who she has switched to. She tells them it is none of their business and hangs up. She is angry and feels she has been scammed long enough.
She talks about how alienated she feels from some of the family she was once so close to, grandkids in particular. They drive by the house, but don't stop in. I know this is what happens when you are old, especially when you are in the old people warehouse. We swap childhood stories. I didn't know she was mostly raised by her grandmother. When her mother tried to take her for weekends, she would cry to go home and be with her aunts and uncles. I tell her stories. She says I should write a book. I didn't get much done today, but it wasn't wasted time.
This year, my mother-in-law asked me to help plant fake flowers in her white square planters along the front of her porch and garage. She's in her eighties. Until now, we always filled the planters with real geraniums and white flowers that hung over the edges. I thought of the plastic flowers that were so popular in the 70's. Those wouldn't fade and look tired after a season. Her silk flowers from the dollar store will be faded by mid-summer. The look real enough from the street.
I admit that, for years, I have stuffed my window boxes with quality silk flowers that are good for two seasons. It's much easier to keep them alive, and there is no dead-heading. If the garden club I belonged to in another lifetime saw this, I would surely be condemned. But, I don't care. These flowers cost less than the real ones and I don't have to water them every day.
After I plant the fake flowers, I have even fluffed the dirt, I spray weed killer. Eleanor has made this from a recipe she found in a magazine. She also bothers to make her own laundry soap. Too much time on her hands. I hope the weed killer works so I can use it in my yard. Because of the birds and pets, I don't like to spray poison.
I am already over my calorie count and don't want Eleanor to make us something to eat. But it is her thing, and I comply. She always tries to pay me for things I do for her, like painting or mending. This time I put the forty dollars under my paper plate. Later, she will call me to complain. If I lived closer, it's a forty minute drive, she wouldn't have to pay for yard work. She tells me how she puts the salt in the water softener a cup at a time, until she can get someone to dump the bag.
If the weather was nice, I would have hurried back home to work in my own yard. Instead, we sit and visit for awhile. She says how lonely it is at night. When Glen was alive, there was another body in the room. Even when they weren't talking, it was a comfortable silence. During the day she is busy with friends, The phone rings often. She says how she hopes to die in her sleep. I tell her I want to be put to sleep when I am ready.
We talk about the old people warehouses. Neither of us want's to be where your room is smaller than a prison cell, it is always noisy and smells of urine. I assure her that she should stay where she is. Even with the maintenance, it is cheaper in the long run. She has decided she needs a new roof more than she needs hearing aids.
The need to make this kind of choice annoys me. My step-mother also needs hearing aids, but can't afford them. I think the hearing aid industry is a scam. How can they be that expensive today. Why haven't they come down in price. Most of all, why doesn't insurance cover the cost. Unacceptable.
Eleanor has updated all her insurances and come out thousands of dollars a year richer. This appalls me. When she cancels the old insurance's, they want to know why and who she has switched to. She tells them it is none of their business and hangs up. She is angry and feels she has been scammed long enough.
She talks about how alienated she feels from some of the family she was once so close to, grandkids in particular. They drive by the house, but don't stop in. I know this is what happens when you are old, especially when you are in the old people warehouse. We swap childhood stories. I didn't know she was mostly raised by her grandmother. When her mother tried to take her for weekends, she would cry to go home and be with her aunts and uncles. I tell her stories. She says I should write a book. I didn't get much done today, but it wasn't wasted time.
Sunday, May 1, 2016
What About Bob
Gramma
Girlfriend's second ex-husband is being buried today. For the benefit of her son, she has been there for the whole end of life thing. Bob died of complications created by his own refusal to take care of himself. He had diabetes and neglected to monitor his blood sugar. For two weeks before Easter, he had been complaining about how he didn't feel well. His son kept asking if he wanted to go to the doctor. No, he would wait awhile longer.
On Easter, Bob decided he wanted to go to the hospital and Jeremy needed to take him. Jeremy already had plans for Easter. Bob, being the selfish, self-absorbed person he is, never gave it a second thought. A few days later, Jeremy took him home. Bob began having diarrhea. Instead of calling the doctor, he called Jeremy to help him clean himself and his bedding. That would be the day when I expect my kids to take care of my shit. Just kill me now. Jeremy lives forty minutes away. This turned into a week long shit storm. Soon, Jeremy's wife was playing Nancy nurse.
Bob's liver shut down. Attempts at dialysis caused fainting from uncontrollable blood pressure. After the third attempt, the doctors said he should get his final wishes in order. They assured Jeremy that none of this was his fault.
Bob was referred to as "What About Bob," the character in the movie by that name. Girlfriend divorced him when she began to have obsessive thoughts about killing him. He refused to unhusband, ingratiating himself with girlfriends third husband. Bob bought a tiller and grew a massive garden on their property. He would show up and let himself in the house to do whatever. They would come home and there would be Bob, sitting in Scott's chair watching tv. Bob watched the house when they went on vacation. Refusing to sleep in the spare room, he slept in their bed.
Girlfriend and I got together after everything was said and done. When my ex husband dies, I will be pissing on his grave. We drank to Bob, laughing fondly over Bob's idiosyncrasies. Bob could weld. I would bring broken yard furniture over and he would fix it. When I needed an animal put down, Bob was happy to come over and plug it. So, here's to you Bob, the husband that finally went away. We lament that it wasn't husband number three, also being divorced because of persistent thoughts of killing him.
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